


Just Another Teenage Epoch - Ron Weasley, 1999

by ThreeSidedOrchid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Fic Exchange, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 23:04:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeSidedOrchid/pseuds/ThreeSidedOrchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron wants to be an Auror, and he wants to not grow up, and he really wants other people to stop kissing Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Teenage Epoch - Ron Weasley, 1999

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the harryronholiday 2011 exchange on livejournal, for Slu64.  
> Many thanks to my beta Bironic - all remaining errors are my own.

Ron ignores the others in the room, afraid the wavering edge of their giggling will somehow transpose itself into the careful lines of his quill. Normally, his handwriting loops and trails off, unrecognizable except to those familiar with his intentions. But, here he wants every letter perfect, aligned and unhindered by the black blots of hesitation marks. Like Percy's, he thinks, recalling Percy practicing against a ruler until the line was so fixed he could not deviate from it.

"Ron?"

Blinking free of his thoughts, Ron looks up from his seat on the floor. Harry's face is solemn and still in the firelight.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine." He shrugs and shifts uncomfortably, his body too large now to sit for long stretches wedged between the table and chair.

"The elves brought treats," Harry says, gesturing with the mug he's holding before bending to place it on the table. "Here. I'll go get more."

Ron watches him cross to the sideboard, where it seems half of Gryffindor has clustered. It's new this year, the occasional evening treats. No one is quite sure whether it is McGonagall's leadership or the end of the war that prompted them, but they never fail to fill the room with students.

When Harry returns, he slides a plate of biscuits onto the table, balancing his own mug as he sits in the chair behind Ron. Colored sugar sparkles up at him from the sweet perfection of two tree-shaped cookies, and for the barest second, Ron smells pine and sees a flash of fairy lights and branches in a distillation of Christmas memories.

"What are you working on?"

"Auror application." Flexing his hand, Ron picks up the quill again. Harry's leg is beside him, his trousers brushing Ron from hip to shoulder. Harry keeps talking as others wander over. It should be distracting, but Harry's voice is as familiar to him as his own thoughts and Ron regains his focus with ease.

Until a crack of laughter breaks across the room. Several people exclaim Harry's name at once. Quashing the flare of reflexive panic, Ron turns to look. Harry is shaking his head, laughing, and Ron knows by crooked curve of his lips that he is only half-amused. Their eyes meet briefly and then Harry's flick up, directing Ron's attention to the mistletoe hovering over his head.

They've both known it was coming, inevitable since the first sprig popped into existence over Mary Morespell's head and word got around that, unlike previous years, this year's mistletoe won't go away until the recipient kisses someone they really like.

A seventh-year girl whose name Ron forgets steps boldly up to Harry. Almost before he can shrug his agreement she's bent over, pressing pink painted lips to Harry's, her hand splayed over his chest. She doesn't seem bothered when she pulls back and the mistletoe is still floating placidly above Harry's head, just grins and saunters back to her group of giggling friends.

"Can't blame her for trying, mate," Dean calls out. "Who wouldn't want to kiss the hero!"

There're cheers of agreement, loud enough to drown out Harry's quiet, "Yeah, who wouldn’t." But Ron is close enough to hear it, and to see the sardonic twist of his mouth.

 

.........

 

From the southern courtyard the Quidditch pitch looks like a toy; one of the scale replicas with charmed players that swooped and dived while Ron watched, his nose pressed against the shop glass. He can't see the balls in play now, but it hardly matters for practice. Their drills are a familiar, imperfect mimicry of professional maneuvers. Ron's body tightens and releases with the lingering memory of his own practices. Two years ago now, he thinks, his muscles aching in protest of the prohibition against eighth-years on the teams.

Seated on the low, broken wall, he looks away from the game, out to the half-frozen lake beyond and up to the sky. Heavy with winter clouds, it is nothing but unrelenting gray. Inhaling, he lets the cold air fill his lungs, sharp and too thick for him to breathe past.

"Good practice?"

Ron chokes and coughs. Concerned, Harry pats his back.

"Alright?" he asks, when Ron's coughing stops at last. His touch is hesitant, slowing and stopping and leaving Ron with the warm weight of his palm against his back.

"Yeah." Trying to ignore how quickly the warmth vanishes as Harry's hand slides away, Ron looks over his shoulder. Harry's smile is half-obscured by his scarf. Behind him the courtyard is a shell of its former self. Broken stone juts from the snow. Starburst scars of spells gone astray blacken the remaining walls. Ron turns away quickly.

"What are you doing out here?"

Harry brushes snow from the wall and lifts himself up to sit beside Ron, seeming unruffled by the lack of reply.

"Hermione write?"

And Ron knows Harry's trying to feel him out, to see if he's still upset. He doesn't know how to say that he feels her loss as a distant thing, a scar that always aches when touched but is no longer the wound Harry seems to think.

"Nah. Had a meeting with McGonagall."

It had been strange, sitting across from her in the Headmaster's office instead of her former, cozier office. The heavy wooden chair had made him feel small. 'Mr. Weasley, Ronald, the time comes when we must each follow our own path,' she'd said, looking at him over the rim of her spectacles.

"She thinks--" Ron's always wanted to be an Auror, as far back as he can remember. "She said you might not be applying for the Auror program?"

He's not doing it for Harry, so why there's a knot in his chest at the idea that Harry might not be there beside him, he doesn't understand.

Hopping down from the wall, Harry walks a ways away. His boots leave long furrows in the snow.

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbles, voice barely discernible. "I didn't – I don't want to fight anymore, Ron, I'm tired of it."

He's not angry, though he can see Harry's prepared for it in the tense set of his shoulders. He'd been there, at Harry's bedside in the infirmary while he tossed and turned in fitful sleep for three days after the battle. Even now there are shadows beneath Harry's eyes. Against what they've been through, against his own inability to remember a time when Harry's eyes were not bruised from worry or pain, anger seems a useless, selfish thing.

"We'll still get a flat together?"

Shoulders relaxing, Harry smiles tentatively. "Of course."

"Well, alright then."

They stare at each other, the sudden dissipation of tension leaving the distance between them awkward. Ron runs his hands through the snow still left on the wall, making undefinable shapes.

Harry shuffles, but before he can start walking back Ron scoops up a handful of the snow, patting it into a loose ball and hurling it at Harry's chest. "You could have told me, you wanker!"

By the time Harry has gasped in surprise and reached down to gather his own snowball, Ron has dropped down from the wall, grabbed more snow, and is packing it together while circling around.

They trade volleys, their gloves getting soaked, clumping with snow. Harry's hat goes down, and Ron's scarf. Snowballs devolve mid-air, too loosely packed in their rush. Harry and Ron collide, tumbling to the ground when Harry tries to drop a handful of snow down Ron's cloak. Ron tries to throw him off, but even with Ron's bigger bulk, Harry manages to pin him.

He can hear the fading echo of their yells and laughter. Their chests bump as they pant, warm breath filling the inches between them.

"Ron?"

"Yeah?" Ron asks, his heart beating hard. He can see the mistletoe hovering now behind Harry's head.

Cold snow slaps against his mouth and cheeks, leaving him spluttering in counterpoint to Harry's laughter. Harry jumps up, brushing the snow from his hands.

"Time for lunch."

 

.........

 

There's gossip now, a week in and still the mistletoe bobs over Harry's head. Ron finds himself watching it more, though Harry seems no more concerned about it than he did the first day. Even Ginny had tried a kiss, despite being quite happy with Neville. Ron thinks all three of them breathed a sigh of relief when nothing happened.

He's trying not to watch it now, focusing instead on his mashed potatoes. The hall is loud, full of excited chatter over the next day's Hogsmeade trip. Ron barely registers Seamus' "Hey, Harry?" but he does notice the sudden quiet at their table.

Seamus' hands are on Harry's jaw, holding him in place and blocking their mouths from view. Cheeks flushing red, Harry's eyes are wide with surprise at the kiss. It's only the bench seating, being hemmed in by students on either side, that prevents Ron from standing abruptly.

When it ends, Seamus separating them with a last, loud smack of lips, Harry's eyes dart to Ron's. He looks a little lost, uncomfortable as always with the attention of so many on him.

"Worth a shot," Seamus says, flicking the mistletoe above Harry's head and making an expression of exaggerated disappointment that draws the laughter and attention of the others his way.

Ron wants to hit him.

 

.........

 

Hogsmeade has lost some of its shine for Ron after months of running through other towns; the shops are just shops, full of mostly unnecessary wares. Still, it looks cheerful enough decked with lights and garlands for the holidays. They skip the crowd at Honeydukes by silent, mutual agreement. He doesn't know Harry's thoughts, but Ron has no desire to wade into the throng and fight the grubby, grabby hands of the younger students for sweets.

The wood floorboards of the Stationery creak beneath his feet. Dust and the tangy, mingled scents of ink and paper pervade the air. Harry is at the counter, paying for a stack of parchment and quills for Hermione.

Ron finds the quills on one of the low shelves of a display case. Their glossy blue feathers catch the light, even in the dimness of the shop. It's the card that really gets his attention, though. He has to crouch to read its neat calligraphy describing their enchantments: Makes any ink invisible, only revealed again by brushing the paired quill over it.

"Hey! This would be great for Fred and Geo--" He stops, sick with sudden memory.

"Ron?"

A touch to his shoulder makes Ron blink with the realization that he's sitting on the floor. He lets Harry give him a hand up, their palms cool and dry against each other.

Overlapping footprints have mashed the snow to a gray slush. Ron stares, trying to distinguish the fresh tracks from those trampled beneath. He follows Harry, not caring where they're going. He pretends the bitter prickle at his eyes is only the cold.

He can't believe he forgot.

Slowly the slush gives way to cleaner snow, and Ron realizes they're on the path to Hogwarts.

"Thought you had more shopping?" he asks, voice sounding thick and disused.

Harry shrugs, his arm brushing against Ron's. "It's cold."

Ron nods, like that excuse makes sense in a world of warming charms and enchanted cloaks. He doesn't move away, though Harry's arm touches his every few steps.

 

.........

 

The letter comes the Tuesday before hols, when Ron is flying circles on the empty pitch. An unfamiliar owl paces him, fat letter clutched in its talons as it squawks for his attention.

He takes the letter mid-air, nearly dropping it and himself when he sees the Ministry seal.

Landing clumsily, he fumbles with the envelope before ripping his gloves off in frustration and finally managing to open it. There are a lot of pages, but it is only the first few sentences he cares about. He reads them again and again to be sure.

He's in. Pending satisfactory results on his NEWTs, he's in. His cheeks ache from his grin. Folding the letter and stowing it carefully in his pocket, he goes to find Harry.

Harry's not in the library, though his books and the essay he was working on are still there. Ron checks the nearest bathroom, but he's not there either.

It's as he stops in the hall, thinking of where Harry might have gone, that he hears the soft murmur of voices and scuffling feet. He follows the sound, anxiety coiling in his stomach, down the hall and around a bend that leads eventually to the Arithmancy classroom.

He doesn't have to go that far. Just around their curve, he can see Harry, pressed against the wall, his hands curled in the tawny hair of another boy as they lick at each other's mouths. The other boy's hand slides up Harry's hip as they move against each other, pushing up under his shirt and over his chest.

Something painful and hot flares in Ron's chest. He must make a noise, because Harry and the boy startle and turn to look at him.

"I should go," the boy says, when Ron doesn't excuse himself and Harry doesn't say anything. Now that he can see his face, Ron recognizes him as one of the seventh-years. He walks slowly, skirting past Ron and hardly casting a glance back towards Harry.

"I got into the Aurors," Ron says into the silence, because the words are still there, on top of all the other words, suddenly crowding to get out.

"That's great." Harry smiles at him, unsure but real, as he slumps against the wall.

"What the hell, Harry!" Ron's arms flail out at his sides. Guys have been kissing Harry since Seamus, but Ron has never seen Harry react to any of them beyond a polite smile.

"It just happened. It doesn't mean anything."

"Clearly!" Ron bursts, gesturing to the mistletoe still above Harry's head. "You could have told me you like blokes!"

"Yes, because you're taking the news so well now!"

"Because you didn't tell me!"

"Well I'm telling you now!" Harry yells, before the fight seems to go out of him. He closes down suddenly, defeated. "If you don't want to room together--"

"What?"

"I know this changes things."

"Merlin, Harry, I don't care!"

"No?"

"No."

It's not quite the truth, and he can see Harry knows.

"Auror Weasley, huh?" he says, an uncomfortable peace offering.

"Yeah." Ron smiles, full and genuine and trying to make Harry understand without words that it really doesn't matter, not the way he thinks.

 

.........

 

The common room is nearly full the night before the train leaves for hols. Most of the students are gathered in small groups, playing snap or exchanging gifts. Harry and Ron take up a set of chairs in the corner furthest from the fireplace to play chess.

"Um, Harry?" pipes a small voice, and Ron glances up from the game to find a fifth-year boy fidgeting uncertainly.

Ron's nerves are already frayed from watching students come and go all day to press kisses against Harry's lips. This close to the hols, those too shy before are suddenly brave, and some who've tried before are coming back, half-joking that they're hoping for a change of heart. Under the circumstances, Ron thinks he should be forgiven for his outburst.

"For Merlin's sake!" He stands, grabbing Harry by the front of his robe and hauling him up too. "Harry is not the bleedin' Blarney stone!"

A smattering of giggles greets his yell, which only makes him angrier. He steps forward, forcing the younger student back.

"If you want to snog a bloody hero, go find Neville!" he snarls, and walks off towards the dorms, dragging Harry with him.

Harry is meek enough in the common room and on the stairs, but he pulls sharply away once they reach the room. The mistletoe jerks and bounces with his movement.

"Ron!"

"They can't just keep snogging you like that! Like it's okay!"

"And why isn't it?"

Ron looks at him incredulously. "It's just-- it's just not!"

Harry's expression grows hard and serious.

"You said you were okay with it."

"I am! This isn't about that."

"Then what is it about?" Harry steps forward, backing Ron into the wall and holding him there, his hand hot against Ron's chest.

"Not..." Ron swallows back the lump in his throat and tries to find the words. "Not that."

"Then what, Ron? I told you, if you have a problem with me liking blokes--"

"I don't!" Ron pushes against Harry's chest, trying to break his hold, but Harry shoves him back, Ron's back hitting the wall with a solid thump.

"What else is there?"

He can feel the rise and fall of Harry's chest beneath his hands, and doesn't think about anything but that as he fists his hands in Harry's cloak and pulls him closer.

Harry's mouth is soft with surprise, and Ron pushes his tongue in to taste him before he can be shoved away. Stubble scrapes against his jaw, and when Harry's lips begin to move against his, the rightness of it uncoils something in Ron that he hadn't realized was there, tight and painful, in his stomach.

As Ron relaxes, Harry makes a rough sound low in his throat, pressing them together so that Ron is caught between the unforgiving wall and the hot line of Harry's body.

They break the kiss, but Harry doesn't give him time to say anything. He licks his way down Ron's throat, his mouth closing over Ron's adam's apple and sucking on it until Ron moans, his hips bumping out against Harry's unconsciously.

"Get this – let me --" Ron pants, grasping at Harry's cloak. Harry wrenches it off, dropping it to the floor in a pool of fabric. He pushes Ron's hands away from his shirt buttons, reaching instead for Ron's jumper. They pull it off together, lifting it over his head and leaving Ron feeling exposed and flushed.

Harry's hands are hot against his skin, trailing from his throat to stomach, his short nails still enough to scratch and make Ron arch up into his touch.

Hands settling on Ron's hips, Harry draws him forward. He slides his leg between Ron's, thigh pushing up against Ron's cock, hot and hard and aching in the confines of his trousers. Ron clutches at Harry's back, pulling at the fabric of his shirt as if he could will it away through sheer desire.

Harry nuzzles at his neck, sucking wet kisses along the tendons of his throat, up to nip at his ear. His breath is hot, uneven, and Ron thinks there are the barest sounds to it, like Harry is saying something too low to make out.

They frot against each other, thighs pressed tight. He can feel Harry's cock against his hip, burning as insistently as his own. Then Harry slides one hand down, beneath the band of Ron's trousers, to stroke his palm over Ron's cock. Ron comes with a shout, eyes pressed shut, feeling Harry's hand tightening around his prick as it pulses again and again.

When he opens his eyes, Harry is watching him. His hand slips from Ron's pants to rest against his hip again. Because Harry's smile is just a little too pleased, because Ron can still feel the weight of his prick against his hip, he shoves Harry back.

Harry looks surprised, and a little anxious, so Ron kisses him roughly before shoving him back until Harry's knees hit Ron's bed and he tumbles onto it.

Climbing onto the bed over him, Ron kisses Harry, claiming his mouth ruthlessly. He yanks the buttons free on Harry's shirt and skates his fingers down the line of skin exposed. Sitting back, his hand pressed to Harry's chest to keep him in place, Ron looks down at him. His chest is hairier than Ron's, a dark thatch of curls narrowing down. It's not enough to cover the Snitch, though, inked above Harry's heart. Ron's fingers drift over it, remembering the trip to the Muggle shop, watching the needle spread the ink beneath Harry's skin. He leans down, pressing his mouth to it, biting lightly at the skin there and trying to erase the memory of a tawny-haired boy's hand drifting to this same spot beneath Harry's shirt, this spot that was and is only theirs.

"Ron," Harry whispers, hands tangling in his hair.

He slides down, mouthing against Harry's skin, not wanting to look up and give himself away.

Ron breathes hot air over Harry's cock, pressing his mouth against it through the fabric of his trousers. He's never done this before, but there's no part of Harry he doesn't want to know, and it's easier than anything to undo the button, slide down the zip, and free Harry's prick. It feels thick in his hand, the skin familiar as his own. Ron presses his mouth to the tip, feeling precome wet his lips before he spreads them to lick against the slit.

Harry moans, sharp and surprised, which makes Ron smile. He holds Harry's cock in one hand, licking up the length and around the top, learning the ridges and salt-bitter taste. Sucking on the tip brings a burst of precome onto his tongue and a warning throb. He slides his mouth down as far as he can, curling his tongue along the sensitive underside. Between his hand and mouth he sets up a rhythm, sucking down and stroking up. He moans helplessly in reply to Harry's incoherent cries. It's not a surprise when Harry comes quickly, his cock pulsing, flooding Ron's mouth though he swallows and swallows.

Pulling off, Ron rests his head against Harry's hip a moment. He can hear Harry above him, breath slowing. His fingers are still caught in Ron's hair, resting now instead of gripping. Ron gets up eventually, crawling up to lie beside Harry.

"Alright?"

Harry looks at him and reaches out, his hand curling behind Ron's neck to draw him forward into a kiss. Ron doesn't know what to say when they separate, his gaze drifting over Harry's features.

"Mistletoe's gone," Ron says after a moment, his surprise muted by the pleasant daze of release.

Harry looks at him steadily, not bothering to check.

"Oh," Ron says, blinking slowly.

"Yeah," Harry breathes, his fingers tracing the smiling curve of Ron's lips.


End file.
